


Penance

by drosera



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: BDSM, M/M, Under-negotiated Kink, Whipping, it just escalates, they don't know to negotiate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:15:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24120439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drosera/pseuds/drosera
Summary: Hubert asks for something strange. Ferdinand gives, thoroughly.--Kink-meme prompt: Hubert has done very poorly and Ferdinand is instructed to give him lashes (then helps care for them after, of course.) Neither of them realize the undernegotiated BDSM of it all.Bonus points if Hubert is the one demanding his own punishment.
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 16
Kudos: 164
Collections: FE3H Kink Meme





	Penance

Ferdinand von Aegir’s hands are not shaking. Ferdinand von Aegir has been to war. He has seen the light of life leave a soldier’s eyes as Ferdinand drove his spear through his heart. He has heard the rattling gasp of a plea cut short. 

Above all, Ferdinand von Aegir is a noble. He takes responsibility for every death, every cry for help resulting from his decisions as a noble. He writes treatises for Lady Edelgard with manicured hands, his skin roughened by war but his nails buffed for the next diplomatic gala. Ferdinand von Aegir is no stranger to consequences, to horrors, to strangeness, to violence. To contradictions. 

He has known Hubert von Vestra long enough to know him to be a contradictory sort. A man who puts violence on a pedestal in his most forward-facing persona, yet falls asleep with the most guileless expression, reading-glasses (that Ferdinand is sure that only he and Edelgard have ever seen) askew on his crooked nose. Hubert is steadfast, loyal, a knife of purpose of a man, ever in his predictable uniform, ever at the ready. He does not tolerate much, failure being the least of those things. 

It is hard for Ferdinand to remember a time when they were not in the thick miasma of war. Failure these days comes in overarching waves. Every personal failure risks the chain reaction of a failure of army, of unity, of victory. Missing a blow at the academy wounded the pride and perhaps the body. A few days in the infirmary and a rematch later and it could be forgotten. 

Missing a blow on the battlefield loses friends. 

Hubert’s fingertips are twitching like they should still be casting. 

It’s been three days since the last battle. They have earned themselves respite for a time, though at great cost.

Ferdinand looks at Hubert and knows that he should insist that Hubert rest. He can play out the usual conversation in his head perfectly: he will request, Hubert will refuse, he will insist, Hubert will grouse, he will plea, Hubert will snap, and they will argue about something totally unrelated until exhaustion takes them and they either retire to their rooms or—on one notable occasion— fall asleep in Ferdinand’s quarters, Hubert in his armchair and Ferdinand half-askew on the bed mid-retort. 

This is not the usual conversation. 

Hubert is holding something in his hand, curved and black and cruel, braided from wyvern-leather and oiled with a reminiscent smell of the stables. The familiarity makes Ferdinand’s stomach curl. He holds it out to Ferdinand, his green eyes wild and darting between Ferdinand and the whip. His gaze is usually so steady. 

Ferdinand knows that Hubert is not the type to ask twice for something. He sees the choice now—acquiesce to Hubert’s strange, manic request, or worse, leave him in this shaking state. Hubert will not accept comforts readily—Ferdinand has had the door shut on him many times before. 

Ferdinand takes the whip from Hubert’s white-knuckled grip and follows him wordlessly into the dungeons. 

—

He remembers the last time he used an implement like this. There are of course various whips used for training horses, many just for the sound and the show so that the animals are kept in line. This is heavier, shorter. An implement like this is for the unique cruelty of human punishment. He remembers his father’s large hand on his shoulder, his cloying voice in his ear. “Someday you will have to show those who are below you just how below you they are.” He remembers accuracy training that he was not allowed to skip, even as he cried. “If you cannot even aim correctly, how are you to maintain the upper hand?” Hot flicks of pain on his fingertips, wrapping around his wrists, his back. He does not shudder with the memories anymore. He has learned to keep his back straight, his gaze forward. He is a noble, and he does not give what he cannot take.

Hubert plods ahead of him down the cold stone steps, his footfalls near-silent from habit alone. Ferdinand can see his gait steadying as he ambles the familiar route. He leads them both down long winding hallways, then up some stairs again, until they come to a sequestered-off room. The air hovers strangely, no doubt burdened with all manners of silencing and protective spellwork. Ferdinand nearly sighs in relief when he sees that there is a window. He will not have to do this task by candlelight alone. Hubert shuts the door behind them and gestures lazily at the lock, sealing whatever magic he has wrought. 

The silence hangs heavily between them for a moment. Ferdinand grips the handle of the whip a little tighter, focusing on the give and creak of the leather. As always, he is the first to break the silence.

“Are you quite certain, Hubert?” He tries not to sound so broken. 

“When have I been anything less than certain?” Hubert scoffs. He is already unbuttoning his shirt. “Surely you know how to use such a crude weapon for such a purpose.” His jacket is folded with perfect precision over a hard-looking chair. His dextrous fingers pluck at his cuffs and reveal ashen-grey wrists mottled with the unfading scars of dark magic use. Ferdinand watches his slip of a white shirt lift over wiry muscle and pale skin, even cooler and more blue-tinged in the moonlight. He is ethereal but never soft, his points and angles more pronounced out of his uniform. 

“How will I know when to stop?” Ferdinand hates the dumb way the words seem to tumble out. 

Hubert smirks humorlessly. “You will know.”

Ferdinand’s stomach sinks even as he feels his pulse in his ears. He watches Hubert brace his hands against the stone of the dungeon wall, his shoulders tensing and relaxing as he assumes the position. Even his trousers have been loosened, sitting low on bony hips. Hubert’s muscles are perhaps not impressive in comparison to his front line brethren, but there is a terrifying efficiency in his lithe form. No sinew is wasted, muscles cording, tensed for action. Ferdinand can see the knots of his spine framed by now-whitened scars. Hubert is no stranger to the lash.

“Do it.” Hubert spits. 

Ferdinand removes his jacket, places the whip on a side table. He remembers to breathe. Steady breath, steady mind, steady hand. Without one the others will fall. 

The tail of the whip patters so softly against Hubert’s shoulders that Ferdinand can hear Hubert’s disdainful sigh. Ferdinand ignores him. He flicks the whip back and forth against Hubert’s back, the braided leather molding to his fingers with increasing familiarity. He lets himself drift into quietude. Hubert’s ears are tinged pink. Ferdinand watches as Hubert’s muscles slowly relax, though his hands are still braced against the wall.

Ferdinand feels himself move before he really thinks of it, a slash across the air, a faint _whsssh_ and then a snap. It takes so little force. Hubert gasps as Ferdinand lands the first real lash against his back, his muscles tensing and releasing as a faint pink line begins to form across the skin. 

“More,” he spits.

Ferdinand’s blood is hot in his ears, his heartbeat pounding in his chest and beating a war drum through his whole body. He strikes again and feels the speed move through his arm almost to the end of the lash itself. Hubert chokes on a breath and hangs his head but does not move his hands. 

“Is this your usual punishment?” Ferdinand hears himself speak. Is that disdain in his voice? Everything feels so hazy, so hot. “Is this what you’ve been craving? Being beaten like an animal?” His own breath comes shakily as he speaks down to Hubert like a man possessed. Ferdinand flicks the lash again, hitting the same spot as the last time. Hubert’s knuckles are white, but he does not respond. His shoulders are pink, shiny with sweat.

“You will not answer me, then? Fine.” Ferdinand is near-shaking with the headiness of this something, whatever it is. “I’ll punish you like the dog you are.” 

Hubert moans in response and slumps forward, his head hanging even as he continues to present his back for further punishment. Ferdinand’s lashes come faster as Hubert’s hands make claw-shapes against the wall, and Hubert finally, finally wails, a low, broken, guttural sound. Quite distantly, Ferdinand registers that he is hard, but it is unimportant in the face of his far more important task of unraveling Hubert. There is blood welling from a few well-placed hits and Ferdinand swears he can taste the iron of it in his own teeth. 

“Will you disobey again?” Ferdinand asks as he brings the whip down again on Hubert’s back, the crack of it singing in his blood.

“No,” Hubert whispers, barely audible.

“What was that?” 

“No, sir.” 

Ferdinand nearly stops breathing before catching himself, realizing that he was not ready for any answer at all, never mind that one. Hubert’s voice is jagged and wet-sounding. He hesitates, watching the rise and fall of Hubert’s back. The sweat and blood are mixing together on pink-marked skin. Ferdinand knows it will be red-hot to the touch. Hubert’s knees are bent inwards and Ferdinand finds it a wonder that he has not keeled over. Still, he refuses to relent, and so— 

“Back in position,” says Ferdinand, still firm of tone but softer. He watches Hubert gather himself slightly and straighten his back, plant his knees more solidly. “Can you take ten more lashes, von Vestra?”

“Yes sir.” A firmer response, drawn up in pride, even with such a shaky tone. Ferdinand theorizes he can take exactly ten and not a single one more.

“Will you count them for me?” Kindly. 

“Yes sir.” 

The tenth makes Hubert grit his teeth through the word, but he is still. 

The ninth is gasped into the stone wall, and the eighth and seventh much the same. Hubert’s grip is slowly sliding down the wall.

By the sixth his voice breaks into a sob. He is pitched forward, nearly hitting his head on the stone. Ferdinand stills, waiting. Slowly, he watches Hubert right himself. His hands are planted back where they were. A faint trickle of blood trails into the waistband of his trousers. 

Ferdinand speeds through the next two as Hubert groans out five and four.

“Last three,” he promises. “I will do them quickly.”

Hubert spits. “Do not pity me.” 

“Never,” says Ferdinand, and lashes him through three, two, and the final one, a brutal swing that whips through the air and cuts a red slash across Hubert’s back. 

Hubert’s knees buckle as he wails brokenly, and Ferdinand follows the sound, three urgent strides until he is standing before Hubert’s kneeling, prone form. Hubert will not look at him, his face obscured by dark hair, the waves curling and slick with sweat. It feels natural for Ferdinand to place his hand on Hubert’s head and tilt him until he is leaning against Ferdinand’s thigh. Hubert slumps against him, his breathing jagged but slowing down. It feels entirely indulgent to reach out and trail a finger down the back of Hubert’s neck and onto the hot skin of his back, radiating an unnatural warmth. The skin seems to almost pulse beneath Ferdinand’s fingertips, as if the blood is reaching to touch back. The heat contends with the cool of the sweat on Hubert’s back, mixing with the occasional beads of blood that trickle lazily down Hubert’s lithe form. 

Ferdinand says nothing the whole while, listening to Hubert’s breathing steady. They will need water. Surely there is first-aid in Hubert’s desk, or somewhere nearby. He does not know this part of the dungeons very well, but he trusts that Hubert is still lucid enough to point the way. He hopes. 

“Two doors to our left.” Hubert’s voice is hoarse against his pant leg, the brush of his lips strangely obscene. Ferdinand has softened only recently and is not used to having Hubert this close. He pushes those thoughts into the back of his mind for later. 

Getting them there is a strange chore—it takes effort to lift Hubert to his feet. All this while, Hubert will still not look at him. 

Hubert unlocks the small, hidden office with an exhausted hand-wave and a mumble. There are a few skins of water on a desk. Some chairs, writing utensils, blank parchment. A bookshelf mostly outfitted with medical texts, spare scraps of cloth, and various unguents and liquids. A haphazard station for first-aid, most certainly self-administered. 

Ferdinand guides Hubert to a hard-backed chair and helps him sit before busying himself with gathering the first aid materials. It’s unnerving, seeing Hubert so acquiescent. He has not said a word since leading them here. His eyes are unfocused and unblinking, staring straight ahead. Ferdinand’s motions are mechanical, the muscle-memory of battle first-aid not as far behind him as he’d like. 

“This will burn,” he says softly. Hubert says nothing in response. The only sign that he hears anything at all is a soft exhale, a minute relaxation in his neck and shoulders as he prepares himself. Even in his seemingly-altered state, Ferdinand doubts that Hubert is not fully cognizant of the exact sensations to follow. 

Be that as it may, Hubert does hiss through his teeth as Ferdinand makes contact and gently draws the hot sanitized cloth over the now-raised lash marks. The skin of Hubert’s back is red-hot under Ferdinand’s touch even through the barrier. Hubert’s breathing has slowed, his shaking hands stilled. He sits backwards on the chair, head cradled in his crossed arms as Ferdinand stands over him. There is not so much blood that Ferdinand feels worried, but there is enough that he is meticulous with the cleaning. The pounding in his own blood has quieted as he focuses, massaging ointment into Hubert’s marks. The first press of his fingers elicits a soft moan from Hubert, the sound giving him enough pause that he slows his ministrations for moment until Hubert emits the softest murmur, urging Ferdinand to continue. The sheen of nervous sweat and the faint slashes of blood have been gently wiped away, leaving raised welts with the occasional break of skin. It’s been so long since Ferdinand saw the results of such handiwork on another person, and never since he saw them so close. The welts are mesmerizing against Hubert’s pale skin, haloed in an angry red only mildly soothed by the ointment. Nothing that will bother Hubert for more than a day, less if he magically heals himself. Something tells Ferdinand that will not be the case, though he dare not voice this.

He realizes that he’s been massaging the same spot over and over— not the welts themselves, but the neck muscles above. Hubert is fully pitched-forward into his crossed arms and sighing softly, and so Ferdinand lets his hands wander further up, carding his fingers into Hubert’s wavy hair and rubbing his scalp. Hubert presses back into his grasp, the sighs even more audible this time. Ferdinand is quite sure that he has never heard Hubert von Vestra make a sound of such audible pleasure before this moment. He realizes that more than anything he wishes to see Hubert’s expression, and so he walks around to face Hubert in two strides. 

Hubert’s gaze is heavy-lidded and weary, but content. Assessing, but without the razor-sharpness of malice that he wears like a mantle. He simply watches Ferdinand and waits. In this moment he reminds Ferdinand so much of a stray cat in a sunbeam. To prevent himself from inadvisably voicing this observation, Ferdinand instead holds a waterskin out to Hubert, who drinks it readily. 

“It is a bit cold this evening,” Ferdinand says instead. Hubert, to his credit, does not startle in body but does look at him strangely. Ferdinand’s words feel useless in his mouth. He tries them again, his efforts feeling like braiding unfinished rope in raw hands. “We should. We should adjourn—” something shutters in Hubert’s gaze, and Ferdinand hastily adds, “—to my room. Against all logic, you and Edelgard have seen fit to give me the better fireplace in that wing.” He gains confidence as he feels his sense return, meeting Hubert’s gaze. “We might as well use it.”

Hubert stares at Ferdinand and gives him the most Hubert of smiles— a quirk upwards of the right side of thin lips, barely perceivable.

“Yes,” says Hubert, and his voice is dry velvet, languorous and a bit raspy. “Might as well.”

If the palace servants find it odd to see Hubert von Vestra wearing the Prime Minister’s jacket on the way to his quarters, they say nothing. Strange things have been done in the name of the Empire, and stranger still have yet to come.


End file.
